“Well reasoned,” she praised.
“Your brother never showed such strategic thinking.”
Harry smirked.
“He is a Gryffindor, after all.”
Fate raised a warning finger.
“Don’t let house rivalry blind you. Some Gryffindors—like Granger—will be valuable allies.”
Harry’s mind flashed to the memories of the brilliant muggle-born.
“She does grow up to be rather attractive, too.”
Fate frowned.
“Beware collecting too many witches as distractions.”
“I’ll only take the useful ones,” Harry replied innocently.
“Call them strategic team-building exercises.”
Death grinned broadly.
Fate simply looked resigned.
“I’ve already spent twenty years in hell,” Harry said, voice hardening.
“I’m not holding back this time. I’ll finish the mission… and then enjoy the rest of my life however I damn well please.”
“So long as Riddle dies and the prophecy is fulfilled,” Death replied, “I don’t care if you burn Britain to the ground.”
“I might be slightly annoyed,” Fate added, “but I couldn’t really blame you.”
The three continued discussing tactics and strategy for some time.
Finally, Fate and Death waved him forward.
Harry’s soul was hurled back through time.
≤○≥
On the thirty-first of July, 1988, eight-year-old Harry Potter sat bolt upright in the cramped cupboard under the stairs, cracking his head against the low wooden ceiling.
“Ow,” he hissed, rubbing the fresh bruise.
His fingers brushed against cool metal on his other hand.
He lifted it into the thin strip of light seeping through the door and stared at the elegant band now resting on his finger—the noble ring of the Head of Slytherin House.
A slow, savage grin spread across his face, sharp and wicked as the gates of hell swinging open.
“Well, hello world,” he whispered, voice dripping with dark promise.
“I’m baaaaaack.”
Harry lingered for a few moments inside his old, familiar body, savoring the sensation.
The cramped cupboard under the stairs felt almost nostalgic—like an unpleasant acquaintance you tolerate once a year, only for them to immediately remind you why you cut them off.
Right.
Time to leave this dump.
With a sharp crack, the cupboard was empty.
The Dursleys could make their own damn breakfast.
He apparated into a quiet park near Privet Drive and dropped onto a bench.
The sky gradually brightened as the sun rose above the trees, painting the dew-covered grass in soft gold.
Freedom, at last.
Harry swore to himself in that moment: no one would ever imprison him again.
Not Voldemort.
Not Dumbledore.
Not the Dursleys.
Not even his so-called parents.
Power was the only guarantee of freedom.
Without it, you were helpless—and the helpless had everything taken from them eventually.
So, what did he actually have?
Wandless magic, though limited.
He could summon and banish objects, apparate, fly, speak to snakes, cast basic combat spells like the Stinging Hex, Lumos, and Incendio.
He also possessed solid Legilimency and masterful Occlumency.
But Voldemort had only bothered mastering what was strictly necessary for combat; true versatility took time.
His Slytherin ring offered excellent protection against Obliviates, mind-altering potions, Confundus Charms, and most other mental interference—though not the Imperius.
Nothing truly blocked the Imperius; it demanded raw mental strength to resist, which was why it was unforgivable.
The ring could also turn visible or invisible at will and was soul-bound, impossible to remove by force while he lived.
It was a strong start, but far from enough.
Wards could block apparition.
His combat options were pitifully narrow.
In the magical world, he would be at the mercy of any mediocre witch or wizard with a basic Defense OWL.
Worse, he lacked stealth entirely—no Disillusionment Charm, no Notice-Me-Not, no silencing spells.
He needed a wand.
With one, his options would multiply overnight.
But how?
Ollivander and every British wandmaker would refuse to sell to an eight-year-old, and any wand would carry the Trace.
Foreign wands wouldn’t help either—the Trace would activate the moment he returned to Britain.
Revealing himself as Lord Slytherin would remove the Trace, but he was nowhere near ready for that revelation.
Stealing one was too dangerous this early.
There was only one real option.
He would have to make his own.
It wouldn’t be a masterpiece, but it would be functional until he could acquire something better.
Since the wand supposedly chose the wizard… he would simply think like a wand.
Yew.
The wood of death and rebirth, resurrection and immortality.
Voldemort had chosen yew for its ties to eternal life.
Harry would choose it for rebirth—fitting, since he was Death’s champion.
For the core: thestral tail hair.
No creature was more intimately linked to death.
Length: fifteen inches—the same as the Elder Wand, the wand forged by Death itself.
Harry sprang up from the bench, stretching his arms toward the sky with fierce determination.
“Shopping time.”
≤○≥
Sue Ruthson was a short, plump woman who romanticized the outdoors in theory but much preferred the cozy warmth of the tearoom in practice.
She flipped the “Closed” sign to “Open” and settled behind the reception desk of the Royal Forestry Society.
“Excuse me,” came a polite child’s voice.
Sue turned and found herself facing a small, skinny boy in oversized hand-me-down clothes.
Unruly black hair framed a pale face, and behind cracked, Sellotaped glasses shone piercing green eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul.
“Y-yes, dearie?” she asked, glancing around for his parents.
They were nowhere in sight.
“Is this the Royal Forestry Society?”
“Yes, it is. Where are your parents, love?”
“Oh, they’re around somewhere,” the boy replied smoothly.
“I’m working on a school project and they said I could ask a few questions. I’m especially interested in really old trees.” He flashed a charming smile that promised future heartbreak.